Holy Palmer's Kiss
by QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Goodnight dies during the Battle of Rose Creek. Billy does not. [Billy x Goodnight]


Billy Rocks was not a praying man. On the rare occasions they were in a town long enough, Goodnight would go to the local church, mud and dust brushed off his coat. He would pause at the door of their room for one last look at Billy, curled up in the bed, unwilling to sacrifice even one second of a soft warm bed to sit in a cold building.  
"I love you Billy Rocks," Goodnight would say, golden morning light wiping away the dark hollows under his eyes, soft smile on his lips. Billy would press his fingers to his lips before extending them towards Goodnight, hair loose and lips bruised.  
"Palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss," Goodnight whispered, returning the gesture before stepping out and letting the door swing shut behind him, heading to the church before returning to Billy.

He would be back soon. He had to be.

Billy squeezed his eyes shut tight, every breath aching as if someone was striking his chest, fire licking down his spine. Voices mumbled on the edge of his hearing, some he could recognise Chisolm's deep voice, Vasquez's rolled letters and hissed curses, Horne with prayers Billy only half recognised from Goodnight's singing. But never Goodnight. Billy couldn't believe that it was even possible, he couldn't be- he wasn't.

It felt like he was dying all over again. Spots danced in front of his eyes as he stared up into the featureless ceiling. He gasped for air, even the small movement robbing him of his breath and yet worse was to come. Billy moved as quick as he could, screaming in pain as he pushed himself up into a seated position, blood trickling down his chest.  
"Goodnight," Billy snarled at the room, eyes darting between pale face and pale face, searching for the one he knew better than his own. Sam was a welcome sight, his hand warm on Billy's shoulder as he waved off the others.  
"I'm sorry Billy."  
No.  
"Liar," Billy growled in the direction of Sam, ringing in his ears, darkness flickering in the edges of his vision. He was lying, he had to be.  
"Goodnight's dead Billy," was all Billy heard as the darkness claimed him once more.

Singing, faint but there. The same floating notes Goodnight hummed as he drew the brush through Billy's hair on lazy Sunday afternoons shut away from the world's prying eyes. Billy smiled, wrapped in warmth and serenity, safe with Goodnight at his side-

Anger flashed through his veins like a flood, eyes snapping open. Goodnight was dead, fallen from the church tower with bullets blooming in his chest. All because of one man's quest for gold. Billy shifted, catching a glimpse of Vasquez slumped in the chair next to his bed, head tipped backwards.  
Billy whistled once, sharp and quick, Vasquez jolting awake with start, limbs flailing.  
"You awake now hombre?" Vasquez slurred, rubbing one hand against the tangled growth of beard on his cheek as he yawned.  
"Bouge? Dead?" Billy asked, struggling to form each word.  
"Yes."  
"Suffered?"  
"Oh yes."  
Vasquez's smile was as sharp as a knife, the satisfaction chasing Billy back to painful sleep.

Billy wasn't a praying man. He could clumsily copy Goodnight's movements, his natural grace robbed from him under the intense gaze of judgemental strangers. But he tried it then, awake in a hospital bed, skin crawling and hands tied to the bed frame. White men. Never could take a punch.  
"Please," Billy whispered, voice hoarse, cracking from disuse, "Please bring him back to me."  
He didn't even know who he was addressing in his hushed mother tongue. Goody's God always seemed too distant, too harsh and the deities of his homeland were nothing more than a distant memory.  
"He's with you."

Billy jumped at the voice; mind turned too jumbled to sense the presence on his right. Red Harvest lifted a cup to Billy's lips, the water a blessed relief. In wordless response to the unspoken question, Red picked up an item from outside of Billy's limited field of view: the flask, Goody's flask. With a trembling hand, Billy took the flask, running his thumb over the bullet hole in one side.  
"He protects you," Red said simply with a nod, settling back into the seat, knife scraping across the wood carving, scent filling the air.

Billy woke, wishing he hadn't. Birds sung sweetly outside the window, a pleasant breeze kissing his skin, and Billy wished he was dead. Goodnight's absence was a physical wound, one half of his soul gone forever. Never going to see his face, never going to hear his voice, never going to feel his arms wrapped tightly around him, grounding and comforting. He was gone and he had left Billy alone in this world determined to drag him down and crush the life out of him. The anger from previous days was gone, the darkness singing to him like a siren's call.  
"Mr Rocks?"  
Billy half opened one eye to pin the nervous man with a glare. Teddy gulped nervously, shifting from one foot to the other before he spoke again, "I know it feels like there's nothing left for you here, but you'll always have a place in Rose Creek. Mr Goodnight would've wanted for you, I think."  
"He's dead," Billy said, voice flat, "Should've let me die."  
He yanked the blanket over his head to block out the man in front of him, waiting in the warmth until Teddy's footsteps retreated from the room.

The stone was cold against Billy's back, alcohol warm in his belly, smoke soft in his lungs, Goodnight's salvaged coat wrapped tightly around his shoulders.  
"Not bad here," Billy murmured," Might stay." Groaning, Billy pushed himself to his feet and kissed his fingertips, pressing them against the stone marker of Goodnight's grave.  
"Palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss," Billy quoted, turning to walk back into town, humming some of Goodnight's old favourite hymns as he did so.


End file.
